


Forget Me Not

by Areiton



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: (Ish) - Freeform, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, Future Fic, I promise its happy, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pining, Temporary Character Death, War, amensia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 16:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11085780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: He does not remember His name, or who they are or--maybe most important--why He is drawn to them.Or.Spock forgets. Everything. Three times.





	Forget Me Not

i.

The man with angry eyes was back.

He watched, curiously, one eyebrow raised as he paced and argued with the shift manager, his mouth set in a thin line that left Him disquieted, the calm order of His mind troubled by those angry eyes. He watches for too long, then forces His gaze back to His work, almost painfully aware of the other man.

When He looked up, away from the soft ground where He planted and coaxed new things to life, He saw the man watching Him.

He tried not to look. The angry man made things stir in Him, things He did not want. Did not understand.

He kept His eyes on the soft ground and the small orange growth, until the shouting that He did not understand went silent and the eyes that never strayed from His back finally looked away.

The angry man left and He breathed out. Watched the tiny orange leaves reaching for the sun until He no longer saw the man, or the achingly empty place next to him.

 

* * *

 

 

He dreams, sometimes. Of the man with angry eyes and emptiness following him. Of a golden blue star and the man orbits it, He orbits it.

He dreams of blood and death, of stolen moments backdropped by war.

Of white halls and a pale sheets that scratch, a smell that is faintly sterile, a bed that is hot and too full and safe.

He dreams and wakes aching, empty. He feels adrift, lost, hollowed out.

He doesn’t remember a time, before He was here, working with the scientists to grow the small things in the soft ground. He doesn’t remember a home beyond His four small walls, and the small mat where He sits and orders His mind after a day of work. His bed that is soft and warm, fluffy with pillows and blankets and empty, so empty that He lays awake, often, staring into the darkness and wondering what should fill this space.

He doesn’t remember the man with angry eyes, or the golden blue star they would orbit, or the white halls and a bed with sheets that scratch and was too full.

He doesn’t remember why, when He stares at the stars, something kicks in His side, a painful lurch that He welcomes without knowing the source.

He only know that He dreams, and in those dreams, He is happy.

When He wakes, alone, He aches.

He wishes He knew _why._

 

* * *

 

 

The man with angry eyes stays, for another two weeks. He works and the angry man watches Him, and occasionally, when the sun is burning golden on Him and He can hear laughter, sharp and unrestrained, He will sit back on His heels and stare.

Meet the eyes of the angry man.

The are wild and stormy, and something in Him lurches, reaches.

_Bones._

His fingers close in the soft ground, and He sees hope flare in those eyes that feel familiar, before He looks away.

Afraid.

The man is not angry, He realizes. Anger is only a cover for the sorrow so strong it threatens to wash Him away.

It is a coward’s choice, but He takes it. Lowers His gaze to the plants, the soft ground, and ignores the sorrow in the man He does not know.

 

* * *

 

 

The night before he leaves, He sees the man, his shadow falling across the neat interior of His small room, the four walls, the mat. The empty bed.

He lays still, His eyes almost closed, barely breathing.

Watches as the man steps into the room.

Hesitate.

“I’m going. I shouldn’t. I should stay here, with you. He’d want us together--but. What you’d want matters too, doesn’t it?” the man asks, and he sounds like he’s pleading, begging Him for absolution that He doesn’t know how to give.

He stays silent, and waits.

“I don’t blame you. If I could forget--I would. It hurts, to remember.”

Remember what? He _wants_ to remember, but He is scared. Terrified.

“I can’t stay. You understand that, right? You’re safe. Happy, even. I can’t stay.” The man doesn’t sound angry. He sounds broken. Defeated. Hurt.

What could have happened, to hurt him so much?

He lays awake, for a long time, until the sun rises and He returns to the soft ground, the small plants.

The man is gone, when He does.

 

* * *

 

 

The man never returns.

He stays there, in the soft safe dirt, in the small plants. Among people who press warm but distant from Him. Who respect Him, but do not ask about things He cannot answer. He lives there, for years. Five years.

He dreams, sometimes, of white halls and laughter, of softness He never saw in the angry man’s eyes, of a golden blue.

He dreams of red skies and a woman falling, and a man watching him with stoic eyes and a sure, steady love.

He dreams of things that make no sense, snatches of a life He cannot remember, and He aches with fear and longing.

For five years, He dreams, and He grows things, hiding there among the small plants, among the creatures who are so different from Him.

And then He burns, His mind screaming for something He does not know.

He dies, there, on a planet full of soft ground and small growing things and beings who never push Him, in a small neat room of four walls and an empty bed.

He dies, lonely, burning, and is greeted by a golden blue smile and stormy eyes that are no longer angry. He dies and fades into stardust and memories and He reaches and they catch Him as they always have. With love and laughter and the sure knowledge that He is theirs.

_You’re here. You’re home._

 

ii.

 

The man comes again today. He watches him talking to the shift manager, from the corner of His eye, watches the way the manager brightens, almost eagerly. He frowns into the soft ground--those sad eyes don’t find Him, don’t stray from the manager at all.

Not until he’s beginning to leave, and then, just once, he glances back, at where He kneels, working, studying Him, searching for something.

The man nods at Him, lips twitching in something like a smile.

As He watches the man walk away, He wonders why the smile is so unspeakably sad.

 

* * *

 

 

He sees the man again, three weeks later. He cut His hand, and though it barely concerns Him, the shift manager made the strange cooing noises that pass as language here, and shoos Him to a small building that has never interested Him.

The sad man is there, and he pauses when He enters the room, his eyes widening as he takes in Him, rumpled and covered in dirt and holding His hand, the bleeding slow but steady.

“I cut my hand,” He says, His voice rusty and slow.

The sad man’s eyes close, and something crosses his face, quick and complex, before it’s gone and he offers up a smile that feels strange upon his face.

Why does a smile from this man feel so strange?

“Well, c’mon, sit down.”

The man moves around the room with a grace He can’t help but notice, quietly assured and competent.

“You’ve done this, before?” He asks, and the man glances at Him, something flickering across his features.

“What makes you think that?” he asks, coming back with a small device he runs over His palm. It chirps and hums in a way that is oddly reassuring.

“You seem very comfortable,” He offers, hesitantly.

The man laughs. “I was a doctor, before I came here.”

The word rattles around in His head, and the man makes a face. It’s a grimace, like the manager makes when a plant fails to thrive, and for some reason, it makes some of the tension in His shoulders ease. He allows His eyebrows to twitch.

“Doctors. They fix broken things?”

“They try,” he says, staring at the cut on His hand.

As He watches it close under the hum of the little machine, He feels an echo of something alien and familiar.

It disturbs Him.

“Will you be staying,” He asks, as the doctor steps away, taking his machine with him.

Sad eyes find Him. “Yes. I’m staying.”

He nods, once, and slips away with a murmured thanks.

 

* * *

 

 

He dreams, sometimes. Of the Doctor, and bright white walls, of bloody battles and a golden blue presence that laughed.

The dreams leave Him aching and confused, and sometimes, when He sees the Doctor, He wants to ask what they mean.

He wants to ask why sometimes.  

The Doctor fixes broken things, and He sometimes wonders if He could be fixed.

 

* * *

 

 

The question from the Doctor startles Him, if only because no one questions Him. Not anymore.

“Do you have a name?” The question startles Him, and He blinks curiously.

The Doctor is standing next to him, scowling at the machine repairing His broken arm, as He sits placid. The rocks He had removed from the soft ground had fallen, and He’d reacted instinctively, shoving one of the women to safety and letting the rocks fall on Him.

The good Doctor was not pleased.

He considers the question. Here, He is often alone. He spends His evenings in His little room, with four walls and a neat floor, the mat where He sits to order the chaos in His mind.

His days are spent growing things, coaxing life where none was before.

But the others, the quiet small people of this place who are so tiny and plump to His tall slender body--they give Him space, a respectful distance that He never attempts to close.

“I have no need of one.” He answers, finally.

The Doctor snorts. “Well that’s just ridiculous.”

Something like irritation blooms in His chest. “I assure you it is not.”

A smile blooms across the Doctor’s face. “I wanna call you something, hobgoblin. Especially if you’re gonna be needin’ my services so often.”

He tilts His head. “And you, Doctor? What is your name?”

Something pulls across his face, familiar now. That sad hopeful look. “McCoy. Leonard McCoy.”

The name settles in His mind like a weight and He lets it, not sure why it feels like a key to a lock He has lost.

 

* * *

 

 

He sees the Doctor--McCoy--often. Not only when He is injured, but in the quiet of the night, when the work is done and the others retreat with their polite smiles and respectful eyes, into little homes similar to His four walls, but bigger. Homier.

It stirs something very lost and lonely in His chest, and He longs for something unnamed. For a bed that is small and too full and warm.

When the night closes in and the stars brighten and He feels at His most lost, McCoy finds Him. Sometimes, it is merely a walk, quiet company in the growing darkness. Sometimes, the doctor is morose, and snaps, arguing with Him until he flees, face pinched and tight, and He is left anxious and uneasy and restless.

Sometimes, He joins the Doctor in his quarters, and they eat together, letting silence pool between them that feels easy.

He does not know, still, who He is or how He came to be here.

But He feels closer to that knowledge, when He sits in silence with McCoy and watches the stars.

 

* * *

 

 

“You do not belong here,” He says, one night, while McCoy putters in the kitchen. The other man looks at Him, and there is something sad--”Why do you look at me with sadness, Doctor?”

“Hobgoblin,” he says, the Name that the doctor gave Him, the one said gently and with exasperation and annoyance and sorrow and--on very rare occasions when the Doctor is very drunk--with a heat that startles Him, “you best go, now. Morning comes early.”

“Morning comes, Doctor, at the same time it ever does.”

Something in the Doctor crumples, and He shifts, alarmed, toward the other man.

“Don’t, Sp--” he stops himself. “Just. Don’t. You--you should go.”

Feeling strangely bereft and hurt by the dismissal, He goes.

 

* * *

 

 

“You knew me,” He says, and McCoy’s eyes come up to meet his, wary and tired.

“You knew who I was, before this.”

His heart is pounding, a sharp drumbeat of surety in His side.

“You were important to me. And I was--”

“My life.”

The whisper feels torn from McCoy, an admission he doesn’t intend to make, but it loosens something in Him. He steps further into the room, closer to McCoy.

“You came here,” He says, “for me.”

That earns him an exasperated stare, fond but grumpy, a familiar expression in a world where nothing is familiar.

“Of course I did, you green blooded idiot.”

He smiles, then.

 

* * *

 

 

McCoy is stubborn. He will give Him nothing about their life, before. Insists that to force those memories would do more harm than good. And sometimes, He sees sadness in the other man, a melancholy that He can not displace.

Sometimes, too, He dreams, of golden blue and wild laughter, and wakes shaking.

McCoy holds Him, then, kisses Him gently until the shaking eases and swallows the noises He makes, plaintive little cries that mean nothing to him but causes tears to spill from McCoy.

He wipes them away with gentle fingers and soaks up the desperate _want you, stay, love you, so sorry, so sorry, miss him, love you_ that echoes like a refrain in the other man’s mind.

 

* * *

 

 

He stays there. _They_ stay there. And He never remembers, not really. Not the white walls or the bright stars against a black so deep it seemed alive. Not the laughter of a gold touched man. Not His name or the life they shared.

But He built other memories in it’s place, of McCoy’s smile, and their arguments, of digging in the soft ground, and helping McCoy deliver infants. Of experiments in McCoy’s labs and long nights twisted with each other in bed.

His world grew, beyond four walls and a neatly tended room, beyond the fields and buildings where He grew things.

They both had moments, when they were quiet, lost. Sad.

He learned to accept those, as the price of their quiet happiness.

It was not perfect, but when He returned home, and McCoy offered Him a tired frown, something cooking for their meal, He felt something in His side ease. Something pleased whisper,

_You are here. We are home._

 

iii.

The shouting draws His attention.

The two men are standing near the shift manager. One looks furious, his face red and hair dark and tousled, glaring at the other.

The other--His breath catches and He looks away, back to the soft ground, the small growing things there. His hands shake as He works, and the sun is too hot on His back.

Golden blue and impossibly bright, the man stares at Him with an intensity that rattles Him.

He wants to hide. Wants them to go. The shift manager coos at them in the strange and pleasing dialect of the people here, and the shouting eases. Gradually fell silent until the shift manager left, looking defeated and harassed.

They don't. They stay, talking for a while, in low voices that didn’t carry.

And then in silence, watching Him.

 

* * *

 

 

He looks up when a shadow falls over Him, and blinks against the glare of the sun and the shine of eyes.

_They shine like stars in the darkness_.

“Hey. I’m--” he glances at his companion, looking increasingly nervous. “I’m Jim. The grumpy bastard is Leonard McCoy.”

Both of them pause, a kind of hopeful waiting that makes His gut tighten. When He offers no comment, Jim seems to wilt and he slumps into the chair across from Him. McCoy does the same.

“How long have you been here?” Jim asks, and He pauses. The food on his plate is small and tough and unappetizing, and the question makes His stomach churn.

“Dammit, Jim,” McCoy mutters. Jim scowls at him.

“I do not know,” He admits, to these two strangers who are watching Him with naked hope.

Gently, Jim murmurs, “Would you like to know?”

 

* * *

 

 

His name, He is told, is Spock.

 

* * *

 

 

“Jim, you _can’t_ tell him everything.”

The voice is McCoy’s, sharp and protective.

“He would want to know, Bones!”

_Bones_.

He gasps, swaying outside the small building.

White walls and laughter in Jim’s eyes, and Bones, leaning over him, a wicked grin on his face, in a bed too small and full and--

He shudders and retreats, leaves them arguing and hides.

 

* * *

 

 

“You,” Jim says, landing on the ground next to Him, “are avoiding us.”

It’s said lightly, without accusation or anger, and it feels like an observation more than anything, but He flinches under it.

“Hey,” a touch, fleeting, on the sleeve of his shirt. “Spock, look at me.”

He does. He finds himself helpless to do anything but obey when this man gives an order.

“What is it?”

Blue eyes, bright and wide and worried peer at him, framed in gold. He looks tired. Sad.

And He knows, it is His fault.

“I am sorry,” He says, his voice rusty.

Jim smiles at Him, sad and wistful. “Will you--will you try? Maybe come see us? We won’t overwhelm you, I promise.”

_You overwhelm me when you smile. When you breathe. Simply existing, you overwhelm me. You and he, both._

“Yes,” He murmurs, and when Jim smiles, it is blinding.

 

* * *

 

 

Jim finds Him, as the sun is setting, as if he doesn’t trust the tenuous promise He made. Considering how many options He entertained to excuse His absence, that is a fair summation. Jim’s expression is painfully familiar and He wishes He knew _why._

He leads them to a small house, separate and squat and it's cluttered, with books and shoes, with clothes and tools. There is a bed, with messy blankets and dark sheets.

_Jim curled in white sheets and McCoy smiling, a hand reaching for Him._

He blinks and looks away, from the bed and the image superimposed over it.

“You’re here,” McCoy says, his face set in a scowl, and a familiar warmth in his eyes. Flaps a hand at the door.

“Shut that, Spock, you’re letting in the night.”

_Spock? Come in, honey, you're lettin_ _in the light._

Docile, He creeps into the room, standing a few steps away as Jim greets McCoy, their voices low, hands tangling in hair and breathing with quick kisses before they move away from each other and McCoy leans a hip into the counter. “You doin’ ok?”

He hesitates, unsure how to answer that, and then, “I am adequate, Doctor.”

Jim makes a noise, low and startled and McCoy’s eyes are wide and warm.

_Doctor._

Fear beats like a living thing, in His chest.

So does hope.

He shifts, deeper into the room, and Jim guides Him to a chair, and if they want to ask about that slip--about the knowledge He should not have--they do not.

They feed Him and Jim presses Him to play a game called chess, while McCoy watches with lazy, half-lidded eyes and a warning, _Jim_ , when his conversation took too much of a turn toward the past.

The bed lingers, in the corner of His eye.

When He rises, Jim makes a disappointed noise, but McCoy shushes him and they walk Him to the door, to the wide open farm with the soft ground, with small plants that he has coaxed to life, and a wide dark sky lit brilliant with stars. He stands at Jim’s shoulder and watches them, with McCoy near enough to touch.

 

* * *

 

 

They do not leave.

He learns to expect that they will not.

He learns to expect Jim’s laughter and golden blue, filling His gaze.

He learns to expect McCoy’s rough grumble and delicate touch, the care he hides under bluster.

He learns to enjoy their company, and the flashes of _other_ that comes, sometimes, when He is with them.

 

* * *

 

 

One day, months after they arrived, He finds them. Jim and McCoy are in bed, McCoy sitting against the rough wall, Jim curled in his arms. His face is red, blotchy.

**_He always cried ugly_ ** _, McCoy murmured, and Spock’s grip tightened._ **_I would take all his tears._ ** _McCoy’s head tipped down, pressed into Spock’s._ **_I would, too, sweetheart._ **

“I am--”

“Spock,” McCoy says, and his face is tight. The sight of them makes Him ache. With a longing so deep He can barely breath.

“Spock, not today, ok?”

He nods, clumsy, and stumbles away.

 

* * *

 

 

He misses them.

For a week, He wanders alone, bereft.

He does not understand these men, who offer Him smiles and companionship, and who make Him _long_.

There are days when it terrifies Him. When He wants to run, hide from the shouty doctor and the laughing golden blue.

But too--He is drawn to them, inexorably, and to have them suddenly gone, absent--it aches like a wound He can not see, or touch or sooth.

 

* * *

 

 

“Spock,”

McCoy’s voice, after so many days, makes Him trip, and He crushes a small plant in His hands as He stands.

“Doctor. Are you--is Jim--,” He hesitates, unsure how to proceed. Settles on, “I was concerned about you.”

McCoy drops into the dirt next to him, and sighs. “I know. I’m sorry. Kid needed me more than you did, but I didn’t like it, leaving you out here with no answers.”

He lets His fingers turn through the soft ground, and takes a breath. Gathers up His longing, His fear. His hope.

“Doctor. You--you know who I am. Who I was, before this.”

McCoy nods, watching Him warily.

“Will you tell me?”

“Spock,” he starts and He reaches out, allows long fingers dusty with alien dirt to brush McCoy’s hand.

“Please, Bones.”

His voice is tight and choked when he says, “Yeah. Ok, hobgoblin. Ok.”

 

* * *

 

 

The war, Jim tells Him, his voice halting and rusty, was nasty. Devastating. It raged from the Romulan Empire to Federation space, and though they were officially neutral--the war was between Vulcan and Romulans--the Federation fought back. Starfleet answered when Vulcan demanded protection--after the failed rescue of the planet, it was the very least they could do.

“Jim, easy. Not so much,” McCoy cautioned.

“No. Please,” He says. “I want to know.”

The war raged for six years. Millions died. Millions answered for the death of billions on Vulcan.

At the heart of it, always, was the _Enterprise._ Keeping pace with the Vulcan fleet. Protecting and fighting where they were most needed. They carried diplomats, too, attempting to curry peace as much as they fought back, viciously, when attacked.

They turned the tide of the war. And they found each other there, found stolen happiness, together, in the midst of hell, a paradise that was as illogical as it was undeniable.

They were, Jim says, his voice shaking, happy. God, they were so fucking happy.

They saved hundreds of ships, more lives than any Starfleet ship.

But they did not save the _Surak._ The small fighter ship was lost, with all hands, on the eve of peace, while the Ambassador met to finalize the accords that would allow peace to return to the galaxy.

Sarek’s death on the _Surak_ shattered the last remaining mental bond Spock held, shattered his mind. It broke something in him and almost--almost--broke the tentative peace Sarek and Ambassador Spock had forged with the Romulans. Spock--mind broken and furious--had not reacted well. He carved a bloody path across space, cutting down the last resistors to peace, fought his way to the very heart of the Star Empire. He stood over the Ambassador and Romulans, cold and remote and terrifying and watched while peace was signed. His hands and blade were still dripping blood.

Kirk helped him.

And then--Spock left. Disappeared. Stole a ship and enough credits to survive, and vanished into space.

It took almost two years for them to find Him, and they had no idea what had happened between the Battle of Romulus, and the tiny farming community on Deneva, on the far side of the galaxy, the very edges of the outer rim.

He wishes, very much, that He could tell them about those years.

He wishes He knew what happened to make Him forget.

 

* * *

 

 

“You came here, for me.”

“Yes.”

“Because you love me.”

“Yes, Spock, fuck.”

“Jim,” McCoy, sighing it like a plea he has made, a thousand times.

“How long, will you stay here? Waiting for me?”

A silence, so heavy it presses against him, suffocating.

“Forever,” Jim murmurs and it feels like a promise.

 

* * *

 

 

He loves the soft ground. The dirt that rolls so pleasantly between His fingers, and the plants, small and bright and eager, coming to life under His patient hands. He loves the quiet of it, and His small rooms, four neat walls and a mat, where He can order His mind, and a bed that is small and soft and warm, and achingly empty.

He loves this world, with it’s quiet, round people and the respectful deference they pay, in their warm way, to Him

“You can’t hide here, forever,” Jim says, one night, when He is leaving, after too much drink and another day where He finds Jim sobbing in McCoy’s arms. “Spock--you can’t!”

“Jim,” McCoy snaps, shoving the younger man away, and He leaves, as they fall to fighting and He wonders if the promise of _forever_ means as long as He needs.

 

* * *

 

 

The night He does not rise. Does not leave their messy little home with the dark sheets and bed that begs for Him--His heart pounds and Jim’s mouth is trembling as He turns toward the bed, to the thing that they have offered since the first day.

“Spock,” Jim moans, when they kiss, and McCoy watches, petting Jim’s hair, whispering _shh_ and _easy_ and _don’t overwhelm him._

_You have,_ He thinks, helpless, as Jim sucks on His tongue and rolls his hips down, drawing a groan from Him. _You have overwhelmed me completely, and I am better for it._

And then McCoy kisses Him, and Jim moves down His body, and this is familiar, when nothing is, being pressed into the sheets, Jim’s clever fingers, the weight of McCoy in His mouth, and the praise, husky and fervant and _known_ as they coax Him to give them  everything, and then, more, more because Jim is a greedy bastard, and he’s laughing as he fucks Him, but He feels the tears landing on His shoulders as McCoy thrusts into his mouth, and he shudders at the cool slide of them against his skin, and comes, messy and keening, between them, because He knows.

He _knows._

This, if nothing else, He knows _this_.

 

* * *

 

 

He never remembers. He can see it, their past, like a distorted picture, cloudy from the retelling and time. He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t need to remember to know that He loves them.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes, still, another year before He is ready. Before He rolls onto his side between them, sleeping deep and peaceful, and murmurs, “Jim. Bones. I would like to go home.”

Jim had cried then, and Spock held him, while McCoy watched with warm, patient eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time He steps onto the _Enterprise,_ He recognizes home. He recognizes the familiar faces, older and a little worn, strangers staring at Him from faces that linger, familiar and unknown, on the hazy edges of His mind.

The ship is the same, a distant memory He wonders at--does it belong to Him, or to the memories that Jim’s words paint?

He wonders, too, if it matters.

The white walls, and the hum of her, and the room that is small and messy, with a bed that is too small, white sheets scratchy and smelling of sterilizer--they fade away. Jim draws Him down, into the bed and Bones is quick to join them, to turn his hands over His body, until there is only them, now, this, us.

Jim laughs as he sinks down on His cock, hands digging into His chest, anchoring Him to them, riding slow and easy as the ship hummed around them. And He knew this, when He knew nothing else. Between these two men, He knew everything.

This will not be home. Jim explained it, sketching details of a life that tugged at Him, of a small ship and a life on the edge of space, unbound by duty or Federation or a life He cannot remember.

_This is just a pit stop, Spock,_ Bones added, kissing His shoulder, and it eased some of the disquiet in Him.

This place, familiar and unknown, was not His, not theirs, not any longer.

They had built another home, and He falls into that, into the safe space that belongs to them, the too small bed and Bones’ warm voice tucked into His ear, Jim stretched out over Him, fingers digging into His chest as Jim fucked Him and Bones kissed Him and He ached, with everything He had and everything He almost lost.

Home, He realized, later, while they slept, tangled together like the small plants in soft ground, was not a place, not the small room and four walls, not a planet He did not know, not even this ship of haunting half-remembered dreams.

They were here, home, twisted together. He smiles, and nestles closer to them, and Jim sighs as He does and His eyes close, as He dreams, content.

_They are here. We are home._

 

**Author's Note:**

> So when I decided I wanted to write a fic in which Spock had amnesia--I couldn't decide how I wanted it to go. So I did all three. <3


End file.
